certainly isn’t the result of a fit of delayed patriotism. I’ve good reason not to care two hoots about the fate and progress of the regular army‚ their backside still sore from the terrific kick in the pants they were given‚ busily congratulating each other and‚ in the Vichy zone‚ pinning medals of the now defunct Third Republic on each other’s chests.
But I just couldn’t refuse to get involved in hiding this poor parachutist who couldn’t speak a word of French and was outraged at not being able to find any American-tobacco cigarettes here. Then one thing led to another …
My ‘job’ consists of directing bombings on to German targets in the Paris region. In other words‚ to make sure there are as few civilian casualties as possible. That’s all! Whatever happens‚ my conscience will be clear. What more can one ask?
The missions I carry out leave me with a lot of free time; moreover‚ I needed some sort of ‘cover’. Every morning I’m a teacher of French and drawing for the Vocational Education Authority.
Nevertheless‚ I haven’t abandoned my beloved bohemians. But things were beginning to get a bit difficult at Pignol’s. We’ve migrated to a less perilous haven: the Trois-Mailletz‚ near St-Julien-le-Pauvre. On the corner of Rue Galande.
The ‘Oberge des Mailletz’ is by far the oldest tavern of which any record can found in the City archives. In 1292‚ Adam des Mailletz‚ inn-keeper‚ paid a tithe of 18 sous and 6 deniers. This we learn from the Tax Register of the period. At the time it was founded‚ the Trois-Mailletz was the meeting place of masons‚ who under the supervision of Jehan de Chelles‚ carved out of white stone the biblical characters destined to grace the north and south choirs of Notre-Dame. Underneath the building‚ there are two floors of superimposed cellars: the deeper ones date from the Gallo-Roman period. What remains of the instruments of torture found in the cellars of the Petit-Châtelet have been housed here‚ along with some other restored objects.
A modest bar counter‚ a long-haired patron who bizarrely manages never to be freshly shaven or downright bearded. A stove in the middle of the shabby room; simple straightforward folk‚ less drunk than at Rue de Bièvre‚ and less dirty. Just what we needed.
Mina the Cat
When she appeared‚ with that bundle in her arms‚ we had no more reason than anyone else to be there‚ Théophile‚ Séverin and I. A grey fur hat pulled down to her eyes gave her an Asiatic look.
A tatty coat‚ also grey‚ with collar and cuffs to match the hat‚ completed her outfit.
A face of indeterminate age. No chin. On careful consideration‚ a feline cast of countenance. It was only when she was there‚ with us‚ that we had the peculiar sensation that we’d actually been expecting her. We noticed her bundle was alive‚ wrapped in bits of cloth. She just stood there‚ by the door. The patron – Grospierre by name‚ a decent fellow – observed her patiently‚ from behind his thick glasses.
Finally‚ she said shyly‚ in a shrill and uncertain voice like a squeaking violin‚ ‘You wouldn’t have a drop of milk‚ by any chance?’
‘My dear woman‚ of course not!’ said Grospierre. (Milk‚ these days! Just imagine!)
She gave a sigh. Aaah! And lifted her bundle as though to raise it to her lips. There were in those gestures‚ the look in her eyes‚ and that sigh such discouragement‚ such disappointment and despair that we all felt moved and almost ashamed.
Grospierre gave a grimace of exasperation. ‘Wait a moment!’
He came back with a cup‚ and said‚ ‘Cold? Hot?’
‘It’s fine just the way it is.’
The woman’s eyes shone with contentment‚ but she’d long lost the ability to smile. She sat down‚ pulled back a corner of the cloth covering the bundle and revealed the head of a shivering kitten. Grospierre‚ like the rest of us‚ was expecting to see the face of a
But I just couldn’t refuse to get involved in hiding this poor parachutist who couldn’t speak a word of French and was outraged at not being able to find any American-tobacco cigarettes here. Then one thing led to another …
My ‘job’ consists of directing bombings on to German targets in the Paris region. In other words‚ to make sure there are as few civilian casualties as possible. That’s all! Whatever happens‚ my conscience will be clear. What more can one ask?
The missions I carry out leave me with a lot of free time; moreover‚ I needed some sort of ‘cover’. Every morning I’m a teacher of French and drawing for the Vocational Education Authority.
Nevertheless‚ I haven’t abandoned my beloved bohemians. But things were beginning to get a bit difficult at Pignol’s. We’ve migrated to a less perilous haven: the Trois-Mailletz‚ near St-Julien-le-Pauvre. On the corner of Rue Galande.
The ‘Oberge des Mailletz’ is by far the oldest tavern of which any record can found in the City archives. In 1292‚ Adam des Mailletz‚ inn-keeper‚ paid a tithe of 18 sous and 6 deniers. This we learn from the Tax Register of the period. At the time it was founded‚ the Trois-Mailletz was the meeting place of masons‚ who under the supervision of Jehan de Chelles‚ carved out of white stone the biblical characters destined to grace the north and south choirs of Notre-Dame. Underneath the building‚ there are two floors of superimposed cellars: the deeper ones date from the Gallo-Roman period. What remains of the instruments of torture found in the cellars of the Petit-Châtelet have been housed here‚ along with some other restored objects.
A modest bar counter‚ a long-haired patron who bizarrely manages never to be freshly shaven or downright bearded. A stove in the middle of the shabby room; simple straightforward folk‚ less drunk than at Rue de Bièvre‚ and less dirty. Just what we needed.
Mina the Cat
When she appeared‚ with that bundle in her arms‚ we had no more reason than anyone else to be there‚ Théophile‚ Séverin and I. A grey fur hat pulled down to her eyes gave her an Asiatic look.
A tatty coat‚ also grey‚ with collar and cuffs to match the hat‚ completed her outfit.
A face of indeterminate age. No chin. On careful consideration‚ a feline cast of countenance. It was only when she was there‚ with us‚ that we had the peculiar sensation that we’d actually been expecting her. We noticed her bundle was alive‚ wrapped in bits of cloth. She just stood there‚ by the door. The patron – Grospierre by name‚ a decent fellow – observed her patiently‚ from behind his thick glasses.
Finally‚ she said shyly‚ in a shrill and uncertain voice like a squeaking violin‚ ‘You wouldn’t have a drop of milk‚ by any chance?’
‘My dear woman‚ of course not!’ said Grospierre. (Milk‚ these days! Just imagine!)
She gave a sigh. Aaah! And lifted her bundle as though to raise it to her lips. There were in those gestures‚ the look in her eyes‚ and that sigh such discouragement‚ such disappointment and despair that we all felt moved and almost ashamed.
Grospierre gave a grimace of exasperation. ‘Wait a moment!’
He came back with a cup‚ and said‚ ‘Cold? Hot?’
‘It’s fine just the way it is.’
The woman’s eyes shone with contentment‚ but she’d long lost the ability to smile. She sat down‚ pulled back a corner of the cloth covering the bundle and revealed the head of a shivering kitten. Grospierre‚ like the rest of us‚ was expecting to see the face of a
Similar Books
